It Brings Back Memories
by xFreakx
Summary: Spikefic. Follow William the Bloody from childhood to his siring, life as a vampire and journey to America. Chapter Three is up: William meets Angelus and Darla and "visits" some old friends... warning. Erm, quite a bit of violence in this chapter. :P
1. Child

Title: It Brings Back Memories  
  
Author: Amanda (xFreakx)  
  
Email: xfreakx@hotmail.com  
  
Rating: R (in later chapters at least ;)  
  
Archive: Ask first. If I don't give you my permission... tough. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one's gonna want to archive it anyway. ;)  
  
Disclaimer: I own no characters in this (at least so far.) Hm. Everything belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. And the song "Lonely Boy" (from which the title is taken, although used horribly out of context) belongs to the Sex Pistols.  
  
Feedback: Pleeeease?  
  
********************  
  
I need her tender touch, oh I need it so much  
  
I can't forget, oh I'm so upset  
  
I wonder where she's gone, I wonder where she went wrong  
  
I wanna get her back to me, but I think she's tired of me  
  
I'm a lonely boy  
  
I'm a lonely boy  
  
I'm a lonely boy  
  
I'm a lonely boy  
  
-Lonely Boy, The Sex Pistols  
  
Chapter One: Child  
  
The woman let them tuck the coverlet around her in silence. She let them place the baby in her arms, in silence. She touched his cheek, never saying a word, and watched as they bustled around the room. "Don't worry, darling, he should be home soon," her mother said, plastering a smile onto her wrinkled face. "He'll be home soon." She knew, of course, that it was a lie, but she nodded, in silence, and cuddled the child close to her.  
  
He was tiny, with big blue eyes - but then, most babies had big blue eyes. She studied his face and tried to find some vestige of herself, or of William, in those chubby features, but it was too early to tell. She thought that he had her nose. Tired, exhausted, sweat dripping into her face, she ran a finger down his cheek. He burbled and waved his hands, like a tiny clockwork toy. She smiled. "Ah, my love," she whispered, the first words she'd spoken the entire afternoon.  
  
The midwife had noticed it, had told the new grandmother. Most women screamed, or cried out, or sobbed. Little Miss Mary had clenched her teeth and pushed in silence, though her eyes were wide with pain. The grandmother nodded proudly. "My daughter is stronger than she looks," she'd said regally. Now the grandmother left, to let Mary spend time with the baby.  
  
Now that no one was there, Mary spoke, cooing to her child, the boy she had carried in her stomach for eight months - he was premature. "Ah, my love," she repeated, whispering nonsensical, sentimental nothings to him. "You will be William, as well. My darling William."  
  
Unlike William the Elder, who she knew was, at the moment, out carousing in some low... Some low pesthole of a tavern. He had been the spoiled younger son, the fop, and he had not changed in his older years. This William, though, would return her love. He would take care of her in her old age, perhaps, and bring home a lovely girl to marry. In turn, perhaps, she would become a grandmother.  
  
"The world is at your feet, my dear," she told him softly. "Anything you want, is yours." It was the least she could do for him, with such a father. Guilt panged at her heart, guilt at what she had done to her son by marrying Sir William.  
  
He looked at her solemnly, and with, she thought, unusual understanding for a wee red thing not long from the womb. And, Mary thought, he understood.  
  
+  
  
"William!" the tutor said, distaste and annoyance evident in his voice, "- Do- pay attention, will you? This is the third time today."  
  
William had drifted off into his daydream world, the one that always surfaced when the tutor started lecturing in a dry tone about the merits of Macaulay and how William's disposition would approve if -only he'd listen- very frustrating. He found that the streets, visible from the window, were much more interesting than the boring books and history that the tutor made him learn. Try to learn. William was not a good pupil.  
  
"Sorry, sir," William said contritely, though he didn't feel that way at all. He sighed deeply and looked up. "Mathematics is difficult."  
  
"It would not be difficult if you applied yourself."  
  
"But it -is-. And I do try."  
  
"Not hard enough," the tutor said self righteously, flaring his nostrils. As he snorted, a bogey appeared at the edge of his nose, hanging there like a green bit of spider's web. William blinked and tried not to stare at it, but he was doomed. As the teacher continued to drone, the thing wiggled back and forth, daring him to say something. He attempted to peal his eyes away, but it was no use.  
  
"William! What are you staring at?" the tutor demanded.  
  
"Uh, uh, nothing!" he said desperately.  
  
"Pay attention," the tutor said, suspicious.  
  
"I will!"  
  
He hoped sincerely that it would disappear; releasing him from the evil thrall he was held in.  
  
"William, stop looking at me like that," said Mr. Hobson. "For God's sake, boy, what is the matter?"  
  
He was unable to hold it back any longer. Laughter, snickers, all emerged. "You've got a -bogey- on your nose!" he giggled.  
  
Mr. Hobson slammed the book shut. "That is -it-," he hissed, "I've had -enough-! The lateness, the laziness, the rudeness - the sheer - sheer uncaring! You, boy, will grow up to be a nothing! You are a waste of space on God's good earth. I am going to your parents to hand my resignation letter -right now-."  
  
William blinked, and shrugged, and waved his hand. "Fine. You're the third one, anyway. You just aren't good enough for us."  
  
Mr. Hobson gave him a shrewd look. "You're a spoiled brat," he said, in conversational tones, "Goodbye. I hope I never see you again."  
  
+  
  
"It wasn't my fault, mummy," William said, "I don't know what was wrong with him. He just, he just got angry. Snapped."  
  
"It's all right, darling," Mary said, patting him on the head. She ran her fingers through his unruly curls, and smiled. "They just don't appreciate what a special boy you are."  
  
He sighed, and shifted. "Mummy, I'm not a baby any more. I'm eight."  
  
She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "You'll always be my little baby."  
  
William made a face. "Er, yes."  
  
"We'll find you a new tutor soon, don't you worry. And you will like this one, I'll make sure of it."  
  
"Thank you, mummy," he said, and scampered from the room. He wanted to hide before his father got home - once William the elder found out about the money wasted in this latest tutor, there would be a series of very unpleasant events.  
  
"My William," his mother whispered, seated on the divan and looking tired. "Whatever will we do with you?"  
  
+  
  
William sat on the window seat, staring out into the distance. The words arranged themselves in his head, as they did sometimes when he was bored or tired or not paying attention. Words were pretty things, not like cold numbers that were manipulated by rules. You could twist the words around the way you wanted them. He could control the words; even if they didn't always turn out exactly the way he wanted them to. Idly, he toyed with the ponytail, twirling it around his fingers.  
  
They'd given up on the tutors after the sixth one stormed out in a rage, and Mary at least had realized that William was smart enough to educate himself more satisfactorily than the tutors had. After all, he probably wouldn't need extremely advanced maths in the real world; a gentleman didn't work. And he was being trained to be, above all else, a gentleman.  
  
William the elder was rarely home, which suited his son perfectly. He got along better with Mary, his mother. He was beginning to be somewhat embarrassed by the love and affection she rained upon his head. It was all right when he was little, too little to know better. Now, at the mature age of ten, he wanted to grow up, he wanted to be independent.  
  
Or at least, to go outside without being tied to his mother's apron strings.  
  
He'd watched the other children very carefully, when his parents deigned to show up to the social events. Oh yes, they thought he hadn't noticed that the other mothers and fathers spent time with each other - William's father spent his time at the bar, getting loudly and riotously drunk, while his mother spent her time sitting in the corner, watching everything with enormous brown eyes. The other children had been... Loud. Noisy. The boys did not hang on their mothers.  
  
As they had walked to the carriage, Mary had put an arm protectively around her son's shoulders, and was hurt deeply when he wriggled away.  
  
William, whether she liked it or not, was growing up.  
  
+  
  
"Cor, mum, I dint mean it, I swear," the maid said, sobbing quietly in the corner. "'E just hit me, I don't know why 'e did."  
  
"I cannot believe that my William would have done something like that!"  
  
"I saw it," the butler said, "I saw it, Missus. He hit her right in the stomach!"  
  
The maid's whimpers faded into the background as Mary drew herself up to her full height, an unimposing five feet one inch. "My son," she said, "Would not -hit- a maid like some... like some sort of common hoodlum! You are -fired-!"  
  
William watched, peeking through the crack between door and wall. He was somewhat surprised about the turn of events, himself - the maid had been teasing him, not in a particularly good-natured way, either. Something had boiled up out of his gut, almost like he wasn't under his own control, and he'd hit her hard, knocked her over and screamed in her face. And then, shocked and scared, he'd fled.  
  
He inched away from the doors and ran outside, into the streets. Cold air was best, cold air and a bit of a time alone. Yes. He'd calm down, and forget the mindless rage. It was best to keep it under control - control, and he would never do that again. The look on the maid's face scared him shitless.  
  
+  
  
"You look lovely, darling," his mother bubbled.  
  
"I look like a penguin," William said, eyeing himself critically in the mirror, "A foppish penguin."  
  
"You look lovely," she repeated adamantly.  
  
"Thank you, mother."  
  
"I'm so excited for you, William!" she said, "Your first ball, without me or your father... Do treat Sarah nicely, will you? Her mother is an old friend."  
  
"Of course, mother," he humored her. "Of course I will treat her nicely. I don't think the gossips would like it if I put her up against the wall and- "  
  
"William," she said darkly, "You may think your vulgar sense of humor is funny, but I will tell you that other people -do not- appreciate it."  
  
He was seventeen, feeling cocky, and he grinned at his mother. He stood in the doorway for a moment. It was growing darker, and the smog smudged at the horizon and the gaslights were dabs of brilliance in the drear. Turning, William bowed deeply to Mary. "Good eve, Madam," he said, executed a jaunty salute, and ambled over to the coach. Right now, that second, he felt many things - excitement, nervousness - he was not often around others his age - it just wasn't something his mother was fond of.  
  
The coach clattered over the streets, to the home of the rich Clayworth family. They were not gentry, but the current patriarch of the family had huge influence. It was even rumored that he'd go for a sea in the Commons... and the daughter, Cecily, was said to be a beauty. William grinned again, to himself, in the darkness of the coach. Perhaps she'd notice him...  
  
+  
  
"Oh please, William, dance with me?" Sarah asked, petulant. She was very pretty, with a pert face, large dark brown eyes, and honey blonde hair. She was, however, utterly vapid. There was nothing on her expression that spoke of sincere feeling; she was wrapped up in herself entirely. Her body was swathed in a dress that showed off a tiny waist to its best advantage.  
  
"Yes, Sarah," he said, glazed smile plastered on his face, "But you'd better watch your feet. I'm liable to step on them."  
  
She giggled, coyly. "But William, how can I watch my feet, when I'll be too busy watching your face?"  
  
He coughed, and attempted to put a sincere smile onto his features. "Charming, as always. Shall we?" He held out a hand for her, and she took it. They walked out onto the floor as the bad struck up a melancholy waltz.  
  
William hadn't been lying when he said he was horrible at dancing. During the course of the waltz, he managed to step on Sarah's dress twice, trip over his own feet once, and accidentally bump into another couple three times. Each mistake made the smile on his face even more fake, and as he twirled Sarah around in a circle, bringing her close to him, he thought that he might scream with boredom. This was not how it should have turned out!  
  
And then, whirling around in a circle, he saw her.  
  
At first, William wasn't sure exactly why he hadn't seen her in the first place. She was beautiful, she was stunning, she was -reading- a volume of Shakespeare... She must have been about his age, maybe a year younger, her hair piled up elegantly onto her head. Staring, open-mouthed, he accidentally bumped into Sarah, completely clumsy.  
  
"William!" she squealed, "Ouch!"  
  
"Sorry, sorry," he assured her hastily. "I'm sorry, I'm not... Not feeling well, just a touch of a stomach ache... Look, I'll be right back."  
  
"William!"  
  
"Sorry!" he said. "Sorry."  
  
A servant moving by with a tray of hors d'oeuvres jumped as William grabbed his arm. "Sir?" he asked, confused. "May I help you?"  
  
"Yes! I m-mean, certainly," William said, "Tell me, who is that girl? The one reading in the corner?"  
  
The man pursed his lips. "That, sir, is Miss Cecily."  
  
"Cecily Clayworth!"  
  
"Yes, sir. If sir would let go of my arm, please?"  
  
"Uh, um, sorry," William said, backing away. Cecily Clayworth. My god, he thought, how could I have missed her? I think I believe in love at first sight...  
  
"Certainly, sir," the man said, and moved away, looking as though he were gliding over the smooth surface, no air beneath his feet.  
  
William watched the girl for a moment before steeling his courage and hurrying towards the plush cushioned seat on which the girl rested. She didn't notice him at first, but then looked up as though surprised by his boldness when he sat down next to her. "Yes?" she wanted to know, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Miss Clayworth?"  
  
"That's me."  
  
"I'm - I'm William Cooper. I couldn't help but notice - you're a Shakespeare devotee?"  
  
"Yes," she smiled, "I am. Ever since I was a little girl, my nanny would read the plays to me."  
  
"Which is your favorite?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation going, "Macbeth is so dramatic, but the Twelfth Night never fails to make me laugh."  
  
"I've been partial to King Lear," Cecily said, closing the book. "It has... Emotion."  
  
"Yes!" William exclaimed, "That's exactly what I... Cordelia's love for her father... It made me wish for the same for mine."  
  
Cecily nodded, enigmatic look upon her face. "I felt her heart."  
  
"William?" Sarah asked, appearing by the side of the seat. "I've found you at least! Oh! Hello, Cecily," she said, sounding less than pleased to see the woman.  
  
"Sarah," Cecily said, and smiled, and looked towards William. She said softly, "I wouldn't keep you from Sarah's company. Perhaps I will see you again."  
  
"Yes," said William, "Yes, I hope so."  
  
"Well, William Cooper. Good eve to you."  
  
"Come," Sarah said, her voice icier every second. "Goodbye, Cecily."  
  
William allowed himself to be pulled away, though he snuck a look over his shoulder at Cecily. She already had her face buried in the mildewed pages of the book. He sighed happily, and did not stiffen when Sarah took his hands in hers.  
  
+  
  
I think I'm in love.  
  
All William could think of was Cecily. The obsession was a rather silly one, but since he had seen her sweet face, the clear features and smooth skin, coupled with the intelligence hidden behind her eyes, all of those combined to make him wake up sweating a night, dreaming of her. He had never felt like that before, but William, a romantic at heart, knew it was true love, pure love. That was what he felt for Cecily, who up until nights before had not even been a thought on his mind. He marveled at the suddenness in which his world had a new center and focus.  
  
When his mother asked how the ball had been and whether or not he thought he'd like to continue seeing Sarah, he had been too immersed in his daydream to respond. Sarah's face, with its coyness and its tricks, was loathsome to him now. It had never been particularly appealing but now, now that he had seen Cecily, he never wanted to talk to Sarah again.  
  
Unfortunately his mother and Sarah both had other ideas and, as William did not want to upset the Madam, he consented to occasionally escort Sarah to dances and parties for which she had no companion. This, luckily for William, was not often. Sarah was quite the popular one, but she seemed to have an inexplicable fascination with this dreamy, almost ethereal and elusive youth.  
  
William found, to his shock, that he was composing poetry. Previously all his work had been of an amateur scholarly tilt, but now, with Cecily's face lurking behind his eyelids, the words formed themselves into embarrassing, mushy sonnets and poems. He read them to whoever listened, which, as gossip got around, was a smaller and smaller audience. Of course, William was too polite to -say- that it was Cecily he wrote of, but more than a few of the quicker young-bloods figured it out on their own.  
  
"How I love thee / let me count the ways / I wish that I would see / that I would see thee always," he scribbled furiously onto a sheet of paper one day, before crumpling it up. "Oh, what's the use? I'll never win her heart by mangling the Bard. How I wish... How I wish the words would come."  
  
But they didn't, and he struggled with his secret passion. In his mind, would come the day when he would profess his love for Cecily, when she would be astounded by the eloquency of his feelings. In his dreams, she would look up at him becomingly from beneath her lashes, and smile softly. "Yes, William," she would say, "I love you, too. You are my world."  
  
It never happened like that. The next time he saw her at a party, she did not want to discuss Shakespeare with him. She smiled cordially, if a bit coldly, and made small talk for a few minutes before excusing herself to go and talk to a young cavalry officer home from India. The sudden change of attitude startled him, and depressed him.  
  
"Cecily, why are you avoiding me?" he asked desperately at the Haywoods' son's birthday gala.  
  
"I'm not avoiding you, William," she said. "I have other duties. I would love so to stay and chat, but I can't. You mustn't be selfish." And she swept away, leaving him standing there in despair.  
  
William threw himself wholeheartedly into his poetry, using it as an outlet for his frustrated feelings. He ignored the goings on of the world around him, especially the disappearances plaguing the city of London. His mother pleaded with him not to go outside at night, not by himself. "I can take care of myself, you know, mother. I've training with the sword."  
  
Cecily obsessed him. He lost wait, gradually, and his hair grew even messier, if such a thing were possible. Sarah gave up on William, after weeks of absolutely no attention. She, too, heard the other aristocrats mocking him behind his back, though William himself was either blissfully unaware, or else so wrapped up in his thoughts of Cecily that he simply didn't care.  
  
Once, he paused to ask himself why exactly he loved her so much. He hadn't exchanged reams of interesting conversation. Something about the way that she moved, the way that she held her head - it captivated him. She was not like the other young women, or the other young men, of their age. She was something different - beneath the carefully made up face, the mind of a poet, the mind of a scholar. He could go on for hours about her intellect and wit.  
  
And so the world turned on, slowly, with William as a child, with a child's innocence in the ways of the world. Although he knew that somewhere in the Whitechapel district, bad things happened to people, be they good or bad, none of it touched him. He lived on some other plane, a place where poetry and chivalry triumphed, and his romantic's soul was not laughed nor frowned upon. He was a child, not yet out of the comfortable womb, protected by his mother.  
  
All of that changed, in the year of the Lord 1880. And sometimes, looking back on it, William Cooper felt nostalgia. And sometimes, he looked back and examined what he had been with disgust. At the time, though, all he knew was that he was young and in love.  
  
And the object of his affection did not love him back. He was headed for a catalyst, but he didn't know it yet. 


	2. Awakening

Title: It Brings Back Memories  
Author: Amanda (xFreakx)  
Email: xfreakx@hotmail.com  
Rating: R (in later chapters at least ;)  
Archive: Ask first. If I don't give you my permission... tough. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one's gonna want to archive it anyway. ;)  
Disclaimer: I own no characters in this (at least so far.) Hm. Everything belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Quotes from 'Fool for Love' by Douglas Petrie, used without permission. Sorry. It was necessary. And the song "Lonely Boy" (from which the title is taken, although used horribly out of context) belongs to the Sex Pistols.  
Feedback: Pleeeease?  
  
********************  
Every time I think of her it brings back memories  
I remember how it used to be, oh baby can't you see  
Oh baby come and come back to me  
I'm a lonely boy  
I'm a lonely boy  
I'm a lonely boy  
I'm a lonely boy  
-Lonely Boy, The Sex Pistols  
  
Chapter Two: Awakening  
William had moved out of his mother's house several years ago, but he would visit her occasionally. He could not bring himself to tell her about his longtime obsession nor his poetry. He just didn't think she'd understand - Mary was in many ways a very mundane person.  
  
These days, William lived in a small, nondescript flat in a respectable boarding house. It was the sort of place that down-on-their-luck gentlemen resided. William fit the description perfectly, and the landlady was kind and baked biscuits every weekend for the lodgers. He lived as frugally as possible, rarely buying new clothes or fancy foods.  
  
He did attend get-togethers, how ever. There was always the hope of seeing Cecily. Although he didn't realize it, all the love that he had once lavished upon his mother transferred to the unsuspecting girl. And so, he muddled through life, neither working nor lounging and wasting his time.  
  
Throughout the weeks of September he composed his masterpiece. It was never finished; each time he thought that it neared completion he was suddenly torn by an agony of self-doubt. Nothing was good enough for Cecily, nothing that he did. Soon, he would profess his undying love, and soon, she would give him a response... But the poem's words eluded him, dancing just out of reach. He snatched vainly at words and phrases and came away with nothing.  
  
In late September he was invited to a get-together, a small affair. At first William pondered denying the invitation, but when he found out that -she- was going, he accepted. That Saturday, he gathered up his poetry, and walked to the small house where the gathering was held. It was a dreary day, and by the time he got there his jacket was dusted with miniscule rain droplets.  
  
"Good day, sir," the butler said cordially, helping William out of his coat. He nodded to the servant and scanned the room. Cecily wasn't there yet, so he took his place in the corner, away from the main stream of talk and chatter. William perched the reading glasses carefully on his nose, and stole a quill from a near-by desk, putting it to the parchment thoughtfully.  
  
"Luminous... Oh no, no, no. Irradiant's better," he murmured to himself, picking up where he'd left off. The chatter continued unabated and he caught his mind wishing for them all to disappear. Perhaps this was a mistake...  
  
A waiter approached him with a tray of canapés, and paused. "Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?" he asked.  
  
Still in his own world, William glanced up absently. "Oh, quickly! I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for 'gleaming'? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go, but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see..."  
  
The waiter smirked in that quiet way that servants had, not -quite- insubordinate but certainly far from polite. They saw themselves, in many ways, as being better than their "superiors." This man was no exception - he let the odd bloke alone and moved off into the crowds. As he moved, William glanced away from him, and saw-  
  
"Cecily..." At the sight of her the words flowed, and he smiled. Soon, he'd be able to show her how much he cared.  
  
+  
  
He hadn't been able to work on the poem lately, there hadn't been occasion and he hadn't seen Cecily. As he donned his rather rumpled dress clothes, William thought idly about the night ahead: small party, and then afterwards he was going to visit Mary. His father had passed away last year and she was still broken-hearted, even though the man had treated her like dirt.  
  
It angered William, brought rage boiling up from his stomach - but he suppressed it, viciously, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The glass face was tarnished and a hairline crack ran along its length. He could not afford a new one. "No use getting in a fuss about something you can't fix," he murmured, and brushed a stray strand of hair from his eyes. "Mm. Time to go, I suppose."  
  
+  
  
William sighed in dismay as he saw the company in the room, David, Douglas, and Margaret, the Three Musketeers - they stuck together like the legendary heroes, with none of the charm, tact, or intelligence. He couldn't tell them apart - even the woman, in her flouncing dress, reminded him of the other two. They were talking, as he sat, watching Cecily out of the corner of his eye.  
  
She was particularly beautiful, in a white dress with lavender trimmings. Like an angel from the heavens, brought to earth and fluttering 'round the dark parlor.  
  
"I mean to point out that it's something of a mystery, and the police should keep an open mind," said Douglas - or was it David?  
  
William stood, about to go over to her, when one of them addressed him. "Ah, William! Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?"  
  
Impatient, William summoned up his best 'you do not matter' expression, and looked at them from beneath languid eyes. Cecily hovered at the edge of his vision. "I prefer not to think of such a dark, ugly business at all," he said haughtily, "That's what the police are for." He glanced at her again, longingly. "I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty." He held the papers in his hand, about to leave again.  
  
They were snatched away. "I see! Well, don't withhold, William."  
  
"Rescue us from a dreary topic." Jackals, both of them; wolves hovering around the wounded prey.   
  
"Careful - the inks are still wet - please, it's not finished-" William pleaded.  
  
"Don't be shy," one of the drones laughed. "'My heart expands / 'tis grown a bulge in it / inspired by your beauty, effulgent.'" Giggles. "Effulgent?"  
  
They broke into mocking laughter. William could feel the flush rising - he noticed Cecily get up, and leave, apparently uncomfortable with the attention he was receiving. William glared and tore his papers from the snotty little... As he walked away, he could hear them still.  
  
"And that's actually one of his better compositions."  
  
"Have you heard? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry."  
  
"It suits him! I'd rather have a rail road spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"  
  
William bit his lip. How dare they? How dare they mock his feelings, his work? Enraged, he hurried toward Cecily, who sat on a sofa, staring out the window, a bit dreamy. Her magnificent hair was piled atop her head in a mountain of curls. His mouth went dry as he sat down near her. "Cecily?"  
  
"Oh, leave me alone," she said curtly, turning to him.  
  
He felt that he had to reassure her, comfort her against the words of the Musketeers. "Oh, they're vulgarians. They're not like you or I," he said, pondering touching her hand. Common sense won out and instead he remained still with his knees bent up awkwardly.  
  
"You and I?" Cecily repeated, staring at him. She took a breath, and then continued. "I'm going to ask you a personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?"  
  
He hardly dared to hope - only nodded his head, heart rising in his chest.   
  
"Your poetry," she said, "It's... they're... not written about me, are they?"  
  
"They're about how I feel," he said, suddenly shy. Where would she go with this?  
  
"Yes, but are they about me?"  
  
"Every syllable," he murmured fervently.  
  
"Oh, god!" she exclaimed.  
  
He bit his lip again. "Oh, I know... it's sudden and... Please..." he said desperately, "If they're no good, they're only words, but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Cecily!" He blinked. He hadn't meant to say that, but now that it was out-  
  
"Please stop!"  
  
"I know I'm a bad poet," he went on, "But I'm a good man, and all I ask is that... that you try to see me-"  
  
"I do see you," she said coldly, "That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me."  
  
And she walked off, just like that.  
  
William stood stock still for a moment, barely able to breathe. He was numb, he was ice, there was no pain. And then the shock wore off and he gasped - it felt as though his heart had been ripped still beating from his chest. My bleeding heart lies gasping on the floor / desiring only your warm touch to heal / the cold and pain and sorrow more / If only you could see what I feel-no, no more poetry.  
  
He got up, trying to hold back his tears. The poetry had gone from his life; if she couldn't love him than he would, he would, he would stay away from her, he would stay away from the world. Cecily, Cecily, my sweet Cecily. If only. If only. But there was no hope now, none in the world.  
  
He fled the party, deaf to the nervous titters that sounded in his wake.  
  
+  
  
After a brief stop at his flat, William was walking the streets, holding his poetry. He didn't know where he was going, he was walking and trying to escape the pain, as if by running away from it the shock would recede. As he went he ripped pages and pages and reams of poetry, dropping shards of parchment behind him in a soggy tan rain.  
  
His breath sounded loud in his own ears as he ran-a warm body stopped his progress and made him drop the sheets into a puddle. He bent, snatched them, and escaped into the alley, the darkness swallowing him. Still weeping, William continued the sad job of destroying years of poems and words, words that he had thought meant something but now knew were worthless. Even more worthless than the time he had spent thinking of her and dreaming of her and wishing she would only see him as he saw her.  
  
"And I wonder," said a honeyed voice, "What possible catastrophe came crashing down from the heavens and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"  
  
Startled, William snapped his head up, looking at the woman through a veil of liquid and running mucous from his nose. She was silhouetted by the alley entrance, but as she stepped forward towards him, she seemed slim and pale and beautiful - as beautiful as Cecily, but as different as night and day. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and there was an odd gleam in her eye.  
  
"Nothing," he choked out. "I wish to be alone!"  
  
But she kept on, she walked closer to him. "Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools, who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." She paused, and then in a laughing tone, as though sharing a secret joke with him, "That, and burning baby fishes swimming all around your head."  
  
He scrabbled backwards, nervous. Was she some lunatic who had escaped Scotland Yard? The conversation, the disappearances - all of that ran through his head. But what could such a delicate looking young woman have done? She was slender, and didn't look particularly dangerous - but there was still that strange look in her face, on her features.  
  
"That's quite close enough," he said, "I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you!"  
  
"Don't need a purse." She beamed beatifically, and William was suddenly very nervous. Just who -was- this woman? She pointed at her head, pointed at her heart. "Your wealth lies here, and here. In the spirit and... imagination," her voice caressed the word, "You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."  
  
He stared, dumbfounded. This - in a few words, she had crystallized his feeling of discontent, of not belonging with the other young aristocrats. He stared, insatiably curious. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, and then remembered his mother, waiting. What would she say if he didn't come home...? "I mean, no, I mean... Mother's expecting me."  
  
She moved forward, and William saw her face clearly. She smiled and undid the collar of his shirt - he stifled a gasp of surprise at her forwardness, but couldn't find the will to move away. "I see what you want," she breathed, "Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent."  
  
William blinked at her. "Effulgent..." he whispered. He'd never heard anyone else use the word before - this woman, who he had never seen before in his life, somehow saw into his heart, into his head. He was suddenly aware of the proximity of their bodies, but it was not an uncomfortable one, he did not feel as awkward as he usually did with women.  
  
"Do you want it?" she asked him languidly.  
  
He thought that he had never wanted anything more. "Oh, yes," he said, touching her chest gently. After he did that he was surprised, but not shocked. It felt right, and he finished, "God, yes." He was not sure whether she was offering herself or something grander, something larger. Either way-  
  
She looked down at the ground, for a moment, and he thought that she was having a sudden attack of timidity. He was about to reassure her that he meant no harm when she brought her face up to his again. He gasped in shock, this time, for white fangs had descended over her lower lip. Still, he could not find the will power to pull back, or to ask her, 'What are you?' By then it was too late, and she lunged forward and bit him on the neck.  
  
It was pain. It was pain beyond anything he had ever experienced or ever imagined, fiery and dull at the same time. It felt as though his life was being sucked out through the wound, and he sagged in her arms, unable to stand. "Ow! Ow, ow!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Do not worry, dear," the woman said, and smiled in childish delight. "The hurting is the nicest part, and soon it will be your turn!"  
  
He wanted to say something, but he couldn't speak. She raised a hand and drew her finger sharply across her own neck, and dark blood rose from the wound. "Drink, William," she said, and it did not seem odd that she knew his name, "Drink, and be." She bent his head forward, supporting his weight, and put his mouth to the blood.  
  
Revolted but unable to stop himself, William drank. The taste was quite unlike the salty copper flavor when he bit his own tongue by accident, it was darker, thicker, richer. The woman made a small purring noise in her throat, like a cat - which surprised him, considering she had just slashed her own throat. At this point his thoughts were somewhat disjointed and very confused, things were happening inside of him that had nothing to do with desire.  
  
Right as William thought that this must look very odd to any passerby, he blacked out.  
  
+  
  
When William's eyes opened, he felt groggy and disconnected from the events of the previous night. It must, he thought, have all been a dream. Then, when he woke up enough to notice his surroundings, he realized that he was lying on a stone slab in a dingy basement with the... The woman was sitting on a chair, staring at the wall.  
  
"Um, Miss?" he said, as he sat up, feeling nervously at his neck, half-expecting to find a gaping wound. To his shock, the skin was healed smoothly over.  
  
She looked over to him, and fixed an absent dark gaze upon his face. "Sometimes I'm sad for no reason," she said, "Like today; when I know that the little children are playing in the meadows of Yorkshire."  
  
"Ah," William said, vaguely, "Could you, ah, perhaps explain - what happened to me?" He opened and closed his hand, making a fist. He felt different - stronger. More powerful. There was no pain, nothing like what he had experienced yesterday. Standing, he started to walk towards the stairs.  
  
"Oh, no!" the woman exclaimed, "You can't do that. The sun's face will burn you."  
  
He turned, and glared at her. "Look, I'd like an explanation! I -demand- an explanation!"  
  
"You'll get one, soon enough," she said, and moved towards him, putting William in mind of nothing so much as a pantheress who had already tasted a kill and had the feel of blood in her mouth. "William - you are changed. You are no longer a man."  
  
"That's absurd," he said angrily, "You're insane."  
  
"Yes," she said, and smiled nastily, "But I'm right."  
  
"If I'm not a man," he said, deciding to humor her, afraid that she was correct, "Than what am I?"  
  
"You're like me."  
  
"Fuck your riddles!" he screamed, "I want a straight answer!" Surprised at his own rage, he felt his face shifting, as hers had done. Nervously, William ran a finger over the now-sharp, extended canines.  
  
"Now you see?" the woman said. "You're one of us."  
  
"Who-who are you?"  
  
"I," she said dramatically, "am Drusilla."  
  
+  
  
It was night again. It had taken Drusilla a long time to explain to him what he was, and why. At first there had been rage and then there was denial, and then there was a profound sense of relief that he -was- something, instead of an aimless spectator in life. He had a purpose, now, and he did not have to conform to the norms of society. He knew he had never been like the other men his age...  
  
He and Drusilla walked slowly down the street, and William enjoyed the heightened sense that his new condition brought him. He realized, of course, that Dru - as she told him to call her - was completely insane, but there was, as with Hamlet, a method to her madness. Sometimes.  
  
"You had an easy time of it," she told him. "You should be glad it was I who sired you. The others would not have been so kind."  
  
"Others?" William asked nervously.  
  
"Oh, yes," said Dru, blithely. "Angelus and Darla. You will meet them soon enough."  
  
"Ah," William said, mulling that over. He was not as scared, now, not now that the rage had been released from its pent up knot in his stomach.  
  
"Don't worry, love," she said, "I'm sure they'll appreciate your fishies."  
  
A man walking by suddenly paused, and glanced at them. "Is that-is that William Cooper?"  
  
"Yes..." William said guardedly, "Good evening, George," he greeted the young aristocrat who showed up at all the same parties and gatherings.  
  
"Hm, this -is- a sight, William the Bloody Awful with a girl?" He leered at Dru. "What sort of low doxy is she, then, and how much are you paying?"  
  
"You go too far," William said quietly. Perhaps, even yesterday, he would have dithered and backed away, afraid of the anger that he felt. He could tell that, next to him, Drusilla was tensed in anticipation of something. There was an odd jumpy feeling in his stomach, as though his body was aware of what he was about to do before cluing in his brain.   
  
"Oh, no!" George laughed, "Please, please, William, don't quote poetry at me! Mercy!"  
  
"Terribly sorry, chap," William said, and felt the fangs move down. He leaned forward, and grinned, enjoying the shocked look on George's face. "Unfortunately, you don't deserve it."  
  
The man tried to run, but William grabbed him by the shoulders, leaned forward, hesitating only for a second, and bit. A strange sensation, as George struggled, the blood flowing down his mouth and throat. William had thought that it would be disgusting, that he would have to force himself to do this, but in retrospect it was no more disgusting than, say, eating a piece of rare meat.  
  
George stopped struggling, finally, and William held the body away from him, examining it. "Hm," he said, then glanced over at Drusilla, who clapped her hands together, like a child.  
  
"Oh, bravo," she said lightly.  
  
"Needs salt," William informed her, and dropped the pile of still warm meat that was until very recently named George.  
  
Drusilla giggled, and waved her hand airily. "Come, William. We do not want the mean men to find us, because they do not like bodies."  
  
He felt strangely brash and confident as he held out an arm to Drusilla. "Milady?"  
  
She curtsied and smiled. "Milord."  
  
William fought back a grin as he took her arm. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps being a vampire would not be bad at all - Drusilla was a balm to the heart wounded by Cecily. As for -that- bitch, she'd soon be sorry that she ever treated him like that - they'd all be sorry for the laughs, for the slights. For now, however, there was Drusilla who, if not a living, breathing girl, certainly understood him.  
  
After all, thought William, he wasn't living or breathing either - he wasn't so prejudiced any more.  
  
They swept from the scene of the murder, arm in arm.  
  
+  
  
"Before I meet the others-"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
They were walking through the city, enjoying the night. It was somewhere around three o' clock, to judge by the church bells, but William had never felt less tired in his entire life. "Before I go, I-I want to say good-bye to Mother." He had purposely led the way so that they were now in front of the back entrance to Mary's house.  
  
"I said good-bye to my mother, too. But when I said it she was dripping purple." Drusilla said, looking up at him. She added, "How sweet of you. But I am your mother now, not that woman."  
  
"One moment, Drusilla," he told her, and went towards the door.  
  
"You'll have some a problem there, William," she told him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We can't enter a home without an invitation."  
  
"Piffle," he told her airily, "I can get an invitation to my own mother's home. Go get something to eat, I'll be out soon."  
  
Drusilla waved her hand in a circular motion, and vanished into the shadows. William instinctively went to draw a deep breath, and then remembered that he couldn't breath. Amused, he smiled and knocked vehemently on the door. The hollow sound echoed in the gloomy street. "Hallo!" he called, "Hallo, open up in there!"  
  
He stood there, jacketless but comfortable, and waited until his mother's one servant, Porter, opened the door. The man was wearing a nightshirt and an absurd night-cap which flopped over his face. "Master William?" he said, surprised. "What are you doing about at this hour?"  
  
"Please, I need to see Mother."  
  
"Hmph," Porter said, disapproving tone in his voice, as though not believing the hours young people were holding these days, and then shook his head. "Well don't just stand there, boy, come in."  
  
William grinned. "Thank you." He stepped inside, feeling as though he were seeing the back room, with its worn chairs and foot-stools, for the first time in his life. He looked at the warm fire, appreciatively.  
  
"Master William, I do not think it a wise idea for you to interrupt the Mistress' sleep-"  
  
"Look, man," William growled, "I'll do what I want and when I want to do it."  
  
Porter stepped back, surprised at the tone in William's voice. William walked quickly past him and up the stairs.  
  
+  
  
"Mother?"  
  
His mother stirred on the bed, and sat up, covers and quilt clutched around her skeletal frame. "William? My William? What are you doing here so late?"  
  
"I've come to say goodbye." He looked at her, surprised that he'd ever had such affectionate feelings for the weak thing on the bed in front of him.  
  
"Wha-what?" she stammered. "Goodbye? William, I don't-"  
  
"I've changed, Mother. And you are no longer a part of my life."  
  
She was crying now, quietly. Little sobs that heaved her wrinkled chest upward. "You're just like your father. Just like him. But why? Why?"  
  
Grinning, William shifted into the vampire face. "I told you - I've changed!"  
  
She screamed shrilly and moved backwards, gripping tightly onto the blankets. "William, what happened to you? Oh, my god! Help! Help!"  
  
He could hear Porter running up from downstairs, and bowed cockily to her, still in what Drusilla had called a game-face. "Terribly sorry to leave you on such a bad note," he commented, "But I'm sure you'll get over it, mm? Go out, maybe meet a nice man."  
  
As he walked out the door Porter appeared, face white. "Stay away from her, monster!"  
  
William bared his fangs in amusement. "Don't worry, Porter, I'm leaving."  
  
The man, fearful, cowered against the wall as he strode outside. Drusilla was waiting, daintily wiping the blood from her face with a lace handkerchief.  
  
William spat at the steps of the house. "Good riddance." 


	3. Vengeance

Title: It Brings Back Memories  
  
Author: Amanda (xFreakx)  
  
Email: xfreakx@hotmail.com  
  
Rating: R (in later chapters at least ;)  
  
Archive: Ask first. If I don't give you my permission... tough. (Oh, who am I kidding? No one's gonna want to archive it anyway. ;)  
  
Disclaimer: I own no characters in this (at least so far.) Hm. Everything belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the song "Bleed for Me" is by the Dead Kennedys. I have no rights to it at all.  
  
Feedback: Pleeeease?  
  
********************  
Bleed for me.  
-Dead Kennedys  
  
Chapter Three: Vengeance  
"So where do we go now, Dru?" William asked as they strolled idly down the street. "We've been wandering around London for three nights, and while it's very nice and all, I still think-"  
  
"Shh!" she said, putting a finger up to his mouth. "We're going to see them now."  
  
"Them? Angelus and Darla?"  
  
"Yes. We are going there now."  
  
"And where would 'there' be located?"  
  
"Shh-shh," she said, "Mustn't ask questions."  
  
William sighed and followed after her without complaint. She led him down the streets of the seedier Whitechapel area, but no one bothered them. Perhaps, though William did not realize it, the lack of trouble came from the air of menace surrounding the pair of otherwise innocuous young people. "Here we are!" Drusilla said. "We even have our own room all to ourselves, because Angelus scared the man inside."  
  
He said nothing and instead turned a jaundiced eye on the tavern before him. It was anachronistic in the worst sort of way, one of those grimy pubs that would have been at home in the Middle Ages, Tudor times, of the present Victorian era. It was sandwiched between other such disreputable and dirty buildings, and the façade was dirt caked and time weathered. A sign hung down from the second floor, swaying restlessly in the wind. It said, "The Cock and Bull." Beneath the words a faded picture of a rooster and a bull faced each other.  
  
Drusilla took his hand and led him into the chaos inside. Although the outside looked old, the inside was about as modern as someone down on their money and luck could make it. The people inside it were killing themselves slowly, for the most part, in a frenetic haste to make their lives a little bit easier. In the process they melted their brains and scarred their bodies, but in the constant momentary swirl it was all just a softer burden.  
  
Of course there were people who were killed quickly, quietly, and disposed of in the same manner. The management didn't like police inquiries.  
  
A drunken woman in a low cut dress stumbled up to them and fell against William. "Oi, guv'nor, 'ow 'bout a poke, then? Rates'r cheap."  
  
Drusilla calmly backhanded the woman across the face, and she fell to the ground in a jellied heap. "We have no time for your foolishness," she said, sounding surprisingly sane, for once. "Come, William."  
  
She picked up her skirts in her hands and swept gracefully through the filth of the room, going up the stairs with a confidant look upon her face. William followed, less sure of himself. Dru walked down a long hallway and to a numbered door, which said '7B' on it. She put her hand on the doorknob, making a disgusted noise in her throat at the sticky substance gummed over it, and opened it, walking into the room.  
  
Two people were seated at a table set for three. One was a fairly large man in a conservative suit, with long hair pulled carefully away from his face, and a permanent brooding scowl. The other one was a petite blonde woman in a dress as low cut and daring as that worn by the prostitute downstairs. Both of them looked up when Drusilla answered; first the man's, then the woman's eyes flicked to William. "Drusilla," the man said softly, "What is the meaning of this? Who is this boy?" The last word was disparaging.  
  
"You didn't tell them?" William demanded, his disbelief evident in his voice.  
  
Drusilla looked down at the floor like a guilty child. "Well," she said, and then looked up at the man, defiance in her voice. "I wanted someone to play with. You have Darla, and it isn't fair that me and Miss Edith are all by our lonesome."  
  
"You made him one of -us-?" Darla exclaimed.  
  
"Yes," Dru said, lifting her head up and raising her chin. "Say hello to William."  
  
William smiled nervously and glanced at the two seated vampires. "Good eve."  
  
Angelus (William guessed that was the identity of the dark haired vampire) didn't even bother to look in his direction. He was angry, although he had control of his face. "Drusilla. That was stupid."  
  
Drusilla's face had become vacant. She took a step back and shut the door, and then looked at William. "I am sorry, William. Our Angelus is preoccupied with his own pleasures."  
  
William coughed and bit at his lip. "Hm, well, if I'm interrupting, no need to stay-"  
  
"You picked -him-?" Angelus snorted, as Darla watched the two thoughtfully, "He's a babbling idiot."  
  
"There's poetry in his heart," Drusilla said defensively, "Yours is dry and dull."  
  
"He's not bad looking, either," Darla addressed this remark to Dru, who giggled appreciatively. "Oh, Angelus, he followed her home, why not let her keep him?"  
  
Angelus growled low under his breath, faced with the identical looks from the two women. "I don't like this. You," he snarled at William, "If you do something stupid, I will kill you."  
  
"I feel like I'm meeting a pair of particularly nasty in-laws," William commented to Dru, and then turned back to Angelus. "You will try. You will -try-."  
  
"No," said Angelus, "I -will-."  
  
"When you're done the male posturing," Darla interrupted, "Call the barman up. I think that we could all use a drink... Or possibly a snack. Welcome to our family, William."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," William said impertinently.  
  
+  
  
"We'll be in London for a month," Angelus had said.  
  
"Fine," William had replied, "There are still a few loose ends I need to tie up."  
  
+  
  
He went first to the railway tracks, in purposeful strides. He knew what he had to do and how to go about it. First, William skirted around the train station and down to the tracks, where the careful lines trailed off into the distance. Then he knelt next to them, spat on his hands, and pulled. There was a groan of bending metal as he took the spike up out of the ground. And then another. Four in all, and these went into the brown leather suitcase he had taken from a victim.  
  
"Rather have a railroad spike through the head than listen to it, eh?" he growled to himself, "Well, that can be arranged."  
  
+  
  
The railroad spikes were a comforting weight in the case as he walked jauntily down the street, whistling a tune to himself. He had hailed a cab from Whitechapel, because his destination was rather further away, in one of the more upscale neighborhoods. He did not pay the cabbie, but put the fear of God into the man - or possibly, as the poor cabbie thought later on, fear of the devil.  
  
Both of the people he was going to be visiting had bureaucratic jobs that often required men with suitcases entering their homes to deliver papers, so one more wouldn't be amiss. The last one would take more finesse, but William was prepared to spend time and effort on it. It would be worth it in the end. In the meantime, however, there was the three-story house in the fashionable districts of London.  
  
He waited outside the door until a man in an official looking suit showed up. Before he could knock, William pulled him to the side and into an alley, fangs ready. The man screamed at the sight of his face, but with a careless gesture, William snapped his neck and let the body drop to the ground. He knelt and rooted around in its pockets and took the certification of identity from the man's office. William dragged the man further into the alley, hiding the body from sight.  
  
Reemerging onto the street, he knocked on the door. A servant answered it, and glanced at the suitcase, and the slip of paper as William held it up. "You've brought the papers for Master David, then?"  
  
"Yes," William said smoothly, "I'm from the office. May I come in?"  
  
"Certainly," the servant said, "He's in the study. I'll show you up."  
  
William padded noiselessly through the halls behind the servant, a fat man who tried to compensate for advancing age by growing his hair extremely long. There were art and mirrors on the walls, and William amused himself by glancing at the nonexistent reflection every time he passed by the slivers of polished glass. The servant, walking in front of him, did not notice.  
  
"Through that door, sir," the butler said, bowed, and went on his way.  
  
David was seated at an expensive mahogany desk, elaborate and old fashioned, writing a paper with his head down. "Ah, Jamison," he said, without looking up, "You've brought the plans, then? You're a little late."  
  
"No," William said, grinning, "I'm right on time."  
  
"You're not-" David began, and looked up. "You! What are -you-­ doing here? Where's Jamison?"  
  
"Jamison," said William, nudging the door shut, "Is dead."  
  
David stared at him in disbelief. "I don't understand-"  
  
"David, David," William said, clicking his tongue sadly, "You always were stupid. You don't understand? Nothing's changed, at all."  
  
"Oh god," David said, standing up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over, backing away, "What are you- don't touch me!"  
  
William set the suitcase on the desk, and opened it. "What am I going to do?" William asked, grinning nastily, "Do you remember, at Cecily's party?"  
  
David's mouth opened and closed, rather like a fish's. "N-no."  
  
"You said that you'd rather have a railroad spike through the head than listen to my poetry. I'm here to oblige."  
  
"I didn't- Christ, Cooper, it was a joke!"  
  
William shrugged. "It's really too late for pleading, my good man." He took one of the spikes from the suitcase, and gestured with it. "Don't worry, it won't hurt for too long, mm?" He stepped forward, grabbed David by the shirt color, and dragged the sharp end of the spike along the man's face.  
  
David whimpered and shrank away. William shoved him against the wall, so hard that his breath was pushed from his chest. "Please! Please, I'll do anything just- just, just don't hurt me!"  
  
"Tsk, tsk, you've brought it all on yourself."  
  
The blood that spattered on the ground, thought William, made quite a pretty pattern.  
  
+  
  
When the servant finally pounded down the door, he found David sprawled on the floor in the corner. To call the mangled pile of flesh bone and cloth by a name was stretching the truth. There was a railroad spike impaling the head to the wall, and he didn't see much beyond that because the sight and miasma were so repulsive that he knelt by the broken door and vomited again and again.  
  
When the bobbies came they stepped over the pool of bile, and some of them vomited, too. They had to break into the drywall in order to pull the spike out, so deeply had it been driven in. There was a window open, where the killer had escaped, but the servant was unable to tell them anything except that the man had been around twenty-five and that he had the proper identification. The town buzzed with news and rumors about the brutal murder.  
  
When they found the second body hidden in the alleyway, mouths wagged even faster.  
  
And then, it happened again.  
  
+  
  
Marie Fontaine, the Clayworth's French maid, went about her duties with a new spring in her step. She had started working there fairly recently, and her duties were to keep Cecily's bedroom in order. She had met a charming young man, who brought her flowers every night and left them at the doorstep, with her name tied to a little card around them. He was handsome, tall, and blond, with unruly hair and a lovely lanky body.  
  
Once, when they went walking, he had kissed her lightly on the mouth, and then apologized for his rudeness, stammering endearingly. The only odd thing about him was that she only saw him at night, but that did not matter. Soon, he had promised, he would visit her at the Clayworths' house, and bring a surprise for her.  
  
It made Marie very happy to think of that, because her life was dull and boring. It wasn't that the Clayworths were cruel to her, but Marie had the distinct feeling that they saw her as a piece of useful furniture, unable to think for itself. The work of polishing and straightening and tucking sheets was monotonous. Her new suitor saw her for herself, she felt, and he appreciated her for who she was.  
  
He also wrote her poetry, quaint things in a mixture of French and English. She exclaimed in delight over the show of his affection, and saved all of them in a little book upon which she had drawn a heart. He loved her, she thought.  
  
And soon, perhaps, there would be more than kisses stolen in the dark...  
  
+  
  
They found the fourth body a day after the third was discovered, a young woman named Margaret Moriarty. She was seated on the floor of her bedroom and her face was an endless silent scream of pain and terror, and her body was mangled and torn, the hands tied together behind it. The spike had been driven through her head so that she faced the door of the room, like a pinned butterfly on the wall.  
  
+  
  
Cecily Clayworth read the newspaper every day, even though her father did not like that she did so. She was frightened by the savagery of the murders, and also by the fact that it had been Douglas and David and Margaret. She remembered the night she had twisted a knife in the heart of a young aspiring poet... And then she smiled to herself for being so silly. William could not have been capable of the murders any more than her mother would have.  
  
She was safe, of course, and the fact that his other three accusers had been killed was a mere coincidence.  
  
There was no need yet to be so frightened. She would go on living her life as if nothing had changed.  
  
+  
  
Marie Fontaine giggled and batted ineffectually at her suitor's chest as he leaned closer to her, his mouth hovering over hers. "Ah, mon cher, non, pas ici, pas ic--"  
  
He kissed her, cutting off any reply that she might have made; she responded, shy but passionate. "Then let's go somewhere else, love, somewhere more - appropriate--" he murmured to her, breath buzzing in her ear, now. She wondered idly to herself why he had brought a suitcase with him, but his questing mouth took her mind off of that inconsequential thing.  
  
"Oui," she whispered, "Oui, entré..."  
  
She fumbled for the door, for he still had his arms around her waist. They stumbled backwards into the servants' common room, with the fire burning fitfully into the hearth. He trailed little kisses down her neck until they were inside. Then, with a sudden ferocity of movement that expelled the breath from her throat, he threw her against the door, his face changed. She moaned in terror when she saw what he had become. "Mon Dieu," she sobbed, "Ne me blessez pas..."  
  
"Your god?" the man said cheerfully, running his tongue over those wickedly sharp fangs. "God, no. Probably closer to a devil."  
  
"Le diable?" she whispered. Just looking at the face, she could almost believe it true.  
  
"Well, no," he said, still sounding oddly amused, "But since I like you, and you've complimented my poetry, I'll let you live. This shouldn't hurt much."  
  
He brought his hand down hard and the last thing she felt was a blinding pain in her head.  
  
"Terribly sorry."  
  
+  
  
He made his way lazily through the house, taking his time to examine the little things that made it a personalized place. There were not many of them. The Clayworths preferred quality names and expensive things to anything worth keeping, and their home was covered in expensive, ugly baubles. He made his way upstairs, glad that the parents were out at a ball and the servants, except for Marie, had that night off, for it would make his job much easier.  
  
"Here, kitty, kitty," he whispered.  
  
A voice sounded from one of the rooms, imperious. "Father? Is that you? Are you back so soon?"  
  
William smiled and padded towards the door from which her voice had emerged. He stood in silence for a second, watching the shock grow on her face. "No. It's me."  
  
"How did you get in here?" she demanded, "No one but the servants have the keys."  
  
He smiled reassuringly at her, strolled into the room with the confidence of a wolf, placing the suitcase on the bed. "Marie let me in. She's a sweet thing, but not very bright. Certainly not very tough."  
  
"What have you done to her?" Cecily demanded, eyes blazing, "You--"  
  
He spread his hands wide in denial of the accusation. "Oh, no. She's not too badly injured. She won't wake up for a little while, however."  
  
"What are - why are you here?"  
  
"Here? My darling Cecily, I'm merely here to knot my loose ends together."  
  
"I'm not your darling Cecily," she growled, "And get out of my house, this instant! I shall have you arrested!"  
  
He clicked his tongue. "That's no way to treat a friend, is it?"  
  
"You're not my friend. You ruined any chance with those ridiculous poems."  
  
William made a face, looking hurt. He didn't feel hurt at all, however, only felt a predatory sort of anticipation. "Ah, yes. That was another thing with which I desired to speak with you. My poems... Was it really necessary to say the things you did?"  
  
"Yes! Yes it was! You... You're a simpering, cringing dog!"  
  
"Am I?" he stepped forward quickly, dragged her from the chair and pinned her arms against the wall.  
  
"Let go of me, now," she demanded icily.  
  
He smiled cheerfully. "Thank you, Cecily."  
  
"Why?" Her voice did not falter.  
  
"You're braver than the others. David begged. Douglas shit his pants. Margaret dissolved into tears."  
  
Realization, and fear, dawned in her eyes, gradually. "Oh god," she said, "Oh my god. It was you! You... You did that? Oh god, I was a fool!"  
  
"You were," he agreed. "A particularly noxious brand of fool, as well."  
  
"So you're going to kill me?" she said, and this time there was a quaver in her words.  
  
"Yes," William said, "But first, I'm going to have some fun."  
  
Cecily had been frightened before, but the angelic smile upon his face scared her more than anything that had happened so far this night. She kicked out desperately with one slippered foot, attempting to hit him in the groin. William pivoted to the side, and caught the blow on his thigh.  
  
"Naughty, naughty," he admonished her. Her right hand was caught in his left, and, keeping his eyes fixed on her face, he twisted it, snapping her wrist as if it were little more than a stick. Tears swelled in her eyes, but she continued to struggle.  
  
"Don't make it worse, darling," he said, and went over to the bed. Cecily collapsed onto the floor, cradling her injured arm. William opened the suitcase and took out the last remaining spike, and returned to where his prey was huddled. He hauled her to her feet with one hand, the sharp length of metal held in the other. He drew it softly across her neck, a whisper of steel against skin.  
  
"Cecily, Cecily. You never learned, did you?" he asked.  
  
"William," she said urgently, "William, why are you doing this? You don't want to hurt me. You don't - you were never like this before? What happened? God, don't do this, you'll regret it, I swear you will!"  
  
"What happened?" he asked lazily, taking the spike and pushing it gradually harder into her stomach, "I changed. Why do none of you understand? I've -changed-! I'm not your nancy boy swooning in your shadow. I can take what I want now, without a qualm."  
  
She winced and tried to wriggle away as the weapon pressed deeper into her navel, drawing blood. Pain. Cecily finally gave in and screamed, a ragged expression of her pain and fear. "Oh, good," William said cheerfully, "It's so much more fun when you do that."  
  
When he looked into her eyes, he saw that the pupils were dilated in terror, in agony, and he let his face change. "Now, my love," he whispered into her ear, "Bleed for me."  
  
+  
  
The maid, Marie Fontaine, was inconsolable when the police tried to interview her the next day. She told them everything eventually, but it was in a very haphazard way, confused by her grief and pain. Also, the doctor said, she had a concussion, which made her incoherent. The way they gathered the facts, however, a man who had been courting her for a week had attacked her, but he was a monster, a monster! A vampire! His face had been warped, bumpy like, and there were fangs!  
  
When they went upstairs to find the body, they were surprised to find that it was not as bloody as the last three, Douglas, David, and Margaret. The coroner noted with astonishment that there were two marks on her neck, evenly spaced in a line, about consistent with the bite of a human mouth, and that her body was quite bloodless, a dry husk.  
  
There were also the tell tale marks that had identified the other bodies, in what people were beginning to call the rail-spike murders.  
  
The policemen exchanged gruff comments and dog-eared cigarettes. "This'll be hell on our reputations, lads," one of them complained.  
  
"Wait'll the papers get a hold of -this-," another grunted, "It's going to be a bloody field day, it is."  
  
But with hardly any clues to go upon, and no eyewitnesses alive besides the butler and the maid, neither of whom were reliable spectators; there was little chance of the murders being solved. Oh, there was the crazy woman whose son had disappeared weeks ago, who claimed that her missing child had been the culprit, and that he was a vampire, but they all knew that she was just as her description said, crazy.  
  
Marie Fontaine joined a convent, later, because of her irrational fear of intimacy and close contact with men. The abbess said that she was a model nun.  
  
Somewhere, William the Bloody appreciated the irony of the whole situation.  
  
+  
  
"Stupid!" Angelus said, pinning William against the wall, "You haven't even been sired an entire month, and already you're getting us into trouble!"  
  
William smiled in what he thought was a disarming expression. He raised his hands upward. "And you're going to tell me that you haven't killed during your stay here?"  
  
"I have," said the older vampire, tightening his hold, "But they are clean kills, murders no one notices. A thief. A prostitute."  
  
Darla smiled sardonically from the corner.  
  
Angelus went on. "I didn't bloody massacre four society aristocrats!"  
  
"They deserved it," was all William said.  
  
"We're going to have to leave London early, now, because of you," Angelus said, letting William go. He slid to the floor, grateful for the release in pressure. "You do anything like this again, I'll stake you myself."  
  
"I'm scared," William mocked, "I'm going to be -staked-!"  
  
"Drusilla," Angelus asked, exasperated, "Couldn't you have picked an -easier- one to get along with?"  
  
Drusilla merely smiled enigmatically at him. "My William is a romantic."  
  
"Oh, yes," Darla agreed sarcastically, "He's practically an -artist- with a spike." 


End file.
